


Well Suited

by red_crate



Series: Kinktober 2018 [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Blow Jobs, Bottom Jackson Whittemore, Confessions, Control Issues, Getting Together, M/M, POV Jackson Whittemore, Panty Kink, Prom, Secret Relationship, Stiles Stilinski Has a Big Dick, Suit Porn, Top Stiles Stilinski, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 09:47:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18753940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_crate/pseuds/red_crate
Summary: It feels like every secret he has is on the verge of being discovered; a shiver of arousal runs down his spine when he finds Stiles already looking back at him.—Or the one where they’ve been fucking for a long time. They should probably figure their shit out.





	Well Suited

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Inell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inell/gifts).



> Inell requested Stackson suit prom with big dick Stiles and bottom!Jackson for kinktober 2018. I finally finished it. 
> 
> This became less about the suits and way more about Jackson’s mess of a brain and two boys with _feelings_. 
> 
> Note: I did not mark this as underage because it’s the end of their senior year, and I head canon both boys as turning eighteen the previous fall. If you’re still put off by the idea teenage high schoolers having sex, then this is not the fic for you.

 

_ Basic _ , Jackson thinks as he sighs heavily. He takes the flimsy mask handed to him by the tenth grade girl sitting at the ticket table. His is shiny green, and it doesn't match his suit at all. Next to him, Allison and Lydia are already slipping their masks on, giggling. Scott smiles like a lovesick puppy at Allison when she blows him a kiss and bats her eyelashes from behind the pink eye mask. 

“Uh, no,” he corrects, dropping his mask back to the table and digging through the limited assortment until he finds a dark purple one that is a closer match to his tie.

Lydia tucks her hand into the crook of his arm and urges him along. “Jackson, leave the poor girl alone.” Her auburn hair bounces lightly around her bare shoulders when she turns towards the banquet hall door. 

“I could have brought my Vader mask.” Jackson hears Stiles joke—or not, probably not—with Scott as he slides his own mask over his face. It's red and matte, kind of boring, but for a moment Jackson can't look away from the mischief in Stiles's eyes. A lazy want rolls over his skin as he watches Stiles wet his bottom lip and smile widely. When he meets Jackson's gaze, Jackson snorts derisively and follows Lydia into the hall. 

The room is only half lit and battery powered votive candles have been placed in little glass bowls filled with red, purple, and gold pebbles. Considering the limited budget the underclassmen had to work with, Jackson begrudgingly gives them silent kudos. Everything is slightly cheap, wholesale, but they clearly tried their best to throw the juniors and seniors a good prom. He picks up a punch-filled cup waiting on the refreshments table they pass. His flask is waiting in his jacket pocket.

Towards the back of the room, a dance floor has been set up, and it's already packed with classmates dancing and grinding against each other. Most of it is embarrassing to even watch, but he knows he'll be out there sooner rather than later. The girls will make their demands, and Jackson will, of course, oblige. He likes dancing, especially when there are so many people who suck so spectacularly. 

“Whatever you're packing, I want some.” Stiles has sidled up next to Jackson, pressed just a little too close and voice just a bit teasing. When Jackson's lips part, Stiles says, “I can't be expected to get through tonight completely sober.” 

“Hands off!” Jackson snaps, batting away Stiles's hand when he flips open the front of his suit jacket in search of Jackson's flask. His cheeks are warm at how quickly he pushed Stiles away. He catches the momentary hurt that flits across Stiles's face, but it's replaced just as quickly with an impatient eye roll. 

“Get a cup, idiot.” Jackson looks away from Stiles and busies himself with making sure there aren't any teachers or chaperones paying them attention. He's too slow to stop Stiles from swiping the punch right out of his hand. “Hey.”

The days of Stiles being intimidated by him are long gone. Jackson only regrets that occasionally.  

Stiles sips the punch experimentally before lowering it. “Top me off. It's a little weak.” He steps closer, until his knuckles barely brush against the fabric of Jackson's dark grey suit. 

There's no use fighting it—Stiles's entitled demand nor his inherent draw—so Jackson slips a hand inside his jacket to retrieve the flask. Jackson could swear he feels Stiles's breath whisper across his skin with how close they are standing. It has to be obvious they're up to  _ something _ , but no one seems to notice Jackson tipping some vodka into Stiles's drink. He steals a glance at Stiles from beneath his lashes just before he's finished twisting the cap back on. It feels like every secret he has is on the verge of being discovered; a shiver of arousal runs down his spine when he finds Stiles already looking back at him. 

He's helpless to watch as Stiles lifts the cup and takes a long sip, holding eye contact. With the red mask on, brown eyes darker in this dim lighting, and his snugly fitting white suit, Stiles looks like some iteration of the devil come to collect his dues. He winks at Jackson over the rim of his cup.

Jackson takes the plastic tumbler from Stiles's hand and finishes off the cocktail in one go, staring Stiles's challenge down and telling himself  _ to wait _ . Not now. They just got here, for fuck’s sake. “You should have brought your own,” he chides when he swallows the last of the drink. His ears are warm from the alcohol’s initial flood into his system. 

“My dad's more of a whiskey man, and I'm not really into that.” Stiles shrugs off his casual mention. 

Jackson's knows a little about Stiles's darker past, the way the sheriff had had a hard time dealing those first few months after Stiles's mom died. He wonders if the smell of Jack Daniels makes Stiles's stomach turn the same way Jackson's does when his parents mention their business trips. He'll never ask though. 

Stiles turns to the side, shoulder to shoulder with Jackson now. “Besides, I thought that was supposed to be a perk of being your friend—you provide the entertainment.” He tips his head closer as if trying to be heard over the music blaring through the hall. “If you have an alternative, I wouldn't say no. You look good in that suit. I wonder what you look like without it.” He straightens back up, not looking at Jackson but staring out at the dance floor as he says, “I hope you kept your promise.” 

Jackson freezes and a cold sweat breaks out across his skin. He knows no one could have heard Stiles. Even if they did, they wouldn't quite know what he  _ meant _ . But Jackson's gaze still slides over to where their friends are standing just a few feet away talking. He wants to run away. 

“Shut it, Stiles.” His face heats up, and he's thankful for the half disguise the mask offers. He should go find Danny and demand they sneak off and smoke a little to calm his nerves. Stiles always messes with his head. 

Instead of doing as he was told, as if Stiles really ever listens to instructions, he reaches out to fiddle with Jackson's boutonniere. “Are they lace or silk?” He asks quietly, under his breath. This close, Jackson can see the slight widening of Stiles's pupils. 

Jackson arches a brow, tapping the inner spring of bullshit he's always had. Giving Stiles an uninterested once-over, he says, “Guess.” 

Stiles's eyes narrow, but his lips quirk slightly. After a breath, he shakes his head. “Nope. You tell me when you want me to know. I can wait.” His hand drifts closer and the soft drag of one finger along the inside of Jackson's wrist, a simple touch on its own, somehow pulls every ounce of Jackson's awareness to that one small stretch of skin. “Can you?” 

Jackson's mouth has gone cottony, and his throat clicks annoyingly when he swallows. He's half hard in his pants. But when he looks down, he doesn't see any indication that Stiles is lying about being able to wait. The burn of humiliation does nothing but make Jackson want more— want Stiles's attention and want to remove himself from the situation as much as possible. He knows what he'll end up doing tonight though. 

He does keep his promises, and this wasn't one he wanted to break, anyway. 

Jackson takes the moment to look at Stiles again. The suit, which he had already noticed earlier when the group met up for photos and dinner, is white and slim fit. Stiles looks lanky and broad in it, slightly taller than Jackson if not quite as muscled. The red of his vest and tie draw attention, and Jackson can't wait until he inevitably loses the jacket once he warms up. He's itching to push the jacket off those wide shoulders now, slide his hands down the slick fabric of the vest and tuck his fingers in the waist of his pants. He wants to get Stiles worked up until his suit is a mess and everyone will know just how much Stiles wants it, wants Jackson. 

The fantasy plays out in his mind's eye intensely for a few moments, but Jackson reins himself back in, a little too late. He knows he's slipped at hiding his desire from Stiles once more. Sometimes, in his weaker moments, Jackson wonders why he even bothers trying to hide from Stiles and from himself. He still doesn't have an answer to that one though, just a wall of fear and anxiety that threatens to crush him at the thought of giving in to everything he truly wants. 

Stiles is clearly basking in the attention, chin lifted and hands shoved into his front pockets. He's smiling knowingly at Jackson. “Done now?” 

He isn’t, and that's the whole problem. 

Jackson doesn't run away, but he leaves, attempting to retreat with grace. Danny has to be around here somewhere. He pulls his phone out and shoots a text to his best friend, hoping Danny will come up for air sometime soon. This latest boyfriend had asked to take Danny as a solo date so he could wine and dine him and probably fuck him in the back of their limo. 

_ Where are you? _

_ The hotel. Where are you?? _

_ Meet me by the big tree things. Alone. _

Jackson sighs in relief at the quick replies from Danny. He heads over to where a few large potted plants have been gathered to discreetly hide the DJ speakers. It's incredibly loud here, but he likes the way the bass of the music vibrates through his chest. He also welcomes the noise to cover his words from anyone who might overhear. 

“Hey,” Danny’s shirt is unbuttoned, almost half his impressive chest on display, when he shows up. So Jackson wasn't exactly wrong about the boyfriend’s intentions. There's a fresh hickey on the side of Danny’s neck. “What's up?”

“God, is everyone thinking about sex tonight?” Jackson asks, crossing his arms. He's  _ jealous _ , he realizes— jealous of Danny's happy and functional relationship and jealous that his best friend has already gotten busy. 

Danny laughs. “Dude, it's prom, so I'm going to take a wild guess and say yes. Why?” He gives Jackson a concerned look.

“Stiles,” he hisses the name, as if Stiles is truly the bane of Jackson's existence. The underwear he has on beneath his dress pants would have to disagree. 

He watches as Danny's expression goes annoyed. “You two still haven't figured out your shit? Jackson, come on. You like each other. Or you wouldn't be fu—” Danny cuts himself off when Jackson lets out an aborted panicked sound. Correcting, he says, “doing this still if it was just hate fuelled.” 

This isn't what he wanted Danny to tell him. He isn't surprised, however, considering the level of sympathy he's gotten from him has gotten lower and lower these past few months. He tries, “I'm not— “

Danny shakes his head and takes Jackson by the shoulders. With their foreheads tipped together, he says, “It's your senior prom. It's the last big thing before graduation, Jackson. Make something of tonight and do yourself a favor. Tell him how you feel.” He presses their foreheads together once before backing off and dropping his hands. “At least have one good screw, man. Enjoy yourself.” 

Jackson rolls his eyes, but he does feel just a little lighter.  _ Maybe _ , he thinks tentatively.  “Shut up. What do you know?” He smiles though, able to breathe again. 

Danny slings an arm around Jackson's shoulder and pulls him into his side. “I know more than you. And I know you know you're being an idiot. Don't let that head of yours stand in your way.”

Jackson lets himself enjoy the contact, leaning into Danny's side. He can't stay here forever though, and he doesn't want to anyway. Not when possibility stretches out before him, if only Jackson were brave enough to reach out and take it. 

“Thanks for peeling yourself off Drew long enough to talk,” he mutters, stepping away and pulling his defenses back in place for the moment. 

Danny gives him a look at the weak jab before saying, “You could always hang out with us if you can't trust yourself around Stiles.”

Jackson snorts. “Yeah, that sound like a great time— being the third wheel to your prom date while the two of you eat each other's faces off.” He reaches for his flask, using his thumb to untwist the cap off in the process. When Mrs. Gordon, the closest adult to them, looks away to speak to another student, Jackson takes a deep pull of vodka. “I'll be fine. Go back to your date.” 

A flash of white catches Jackson's eyes. The red and yellow light display on the dance floor reflects off Stiles's suit. He's already out there, making a fool of himself with Allison. He's  _ doing the cabbage patch _ to Bruno Mars and making a ridiculous face meant to amuse his dance partner. It works. 

The fact that Jackson can't look away from him, that he finds himself wanting to drift closer and push Allison out of the way despite Stiles's dumb dance moves, sends a shock of realization through him. It's not the first time he's had the urge to get closer to Stiles— that's been Jackson's problem the whole time— but so close after Danny’s words, he can't push away the facts. 

He likes Stiles. He doesn't just like the way Stiles makes him feel physically, but he likes being around the other boy as well. 

Flashbacks of brief moments where Jackson had allowed the two of them to get along pop up in his mind. The times they had shared an amused look or exasperation at Finstock. When Stiles had tried distracting Jackson from a particularly rough bout of frustration with himself after a test. The times Jackson had said something cutting to one of the others when he thought someone was getting just a little too mean with their remarks to Stiles. 

It's all right there when he thinks about it. 

“There you are!” Lydia pops up at his side, pulling him closer to the dance floor. “I was worried you'd disappeared already. I want to dance, and Stiles already stole my date.” She laughs. 

Jackson curls an arm around her shoulders, emboldened even if still wary of his newfound revelation. They weave their way through the crowd, managing to dodge stray elbows and feet, until they reach their friends. He grabs Lydia by the wrist and she twirls in his grasp with a flourish that brings a smile to his lips. He's always loved her, and she helps him relax a little. 

So he dances with Lydia, then Allison, then Allison and Scott. They all dance together and Jackson slowly drinks down the last of his vodka. By the time it’s empty, he’s sweating and the world around him is a little fuzzy. But he feels  _ good _ . He’s enjoying the night way more than he expected to, even if he knows the alcohol has a little bit to do with his less strict self control. 

He’s got another cup of punch in his hand when Stiles sidles up to him again. Jackson smirks. 

“Feeling good?” Stiles asks, amused. 

Jackson asks, “What do you think?” 

Stiles doesn’t disappoint. Jackson can feel the drag of Stiles’s gaze over him, and the curl of his voice when Stiles says, “Yeah, you look good.” It hooks into Jackson’s gut just right. 

That confidence Stiles has developed over the past couple of years? Jackson thinks he’s got something to do with it. Stiles had been a virgin when they first started messing around. Somewhere along the lines, he realized the scales had tipped in Stiles’s favor. Jackson stopped holding all the power and influence. With that shift in dynamic he felt himself growing more attached to the arrangement and more anxious that he’d  _ lose _ it. 

Right now though, he’s not really thinking about who is holding all the chips. 

“Of course I do,” he says, enjoying the weight of Stiles’s attention and proximity. 

Stiles sighs, but he’s maybe a little charmed because he’s smiling and leaning more towards Jackson. “Of course you do,” he echos. His hand snakes out between them to snag Jackson’s where it hangs between them. “I think I’m done waiting. Don’t want to miss my window.” 

Jackson eyes him. “Window for what?”  But he curls his fingers around Stiles’s. No one is paying them any attention. 

“C’mere,” Stiles pushes closer, speaking so only Jackson can hear him. 

A thrill shoots through Jackson when Stiles tugs him away from the crowd. He lets himself be led past the tables and buffet. When they duck into the hallway of the hotel, Jackson immediately feels cooler now that they aren’t surrounded by the press of bodies. He gulps down fresh air as he stumbles a little behind Stiles on the way to the bank of elevators. 

“Did you get a room?” He asks, impressed and almost offended at the presumptuousness of the idea. Sure, they mess around, but they’re not an  _ item _ . He frowns, thinking about the quality of the hotel. “Couldn’t have been cheap.”

Stiles shrugs and pulls Jackson into the elevator when it opens its doors as soon as he hits the call button. As the door closes, he says, “It’s our prom night.”

They’ve both still got their masks on, but Jackson pushed his up to the crown of his head a while ago because he was getting dizzy. He can feel the sweat cooling against the elastic stretched around his temples. Stiles’s smile looks promising and still just a little devilish beneath his own red mask. 

Jackson wants to push him up against the wall and kiss the smile off his face, thank him for the room instead of pulling Jackson into a broom closet like he’d assumed they would end up using. Instead, he presses against the opposite wall from Stiles and spreads his arms out, gripping the railing in both hands. The chill of the metal feels good against his overheated body. It sobers him a little. 

“Guess I should feel special. And probably put out since you went to all the trouble.” He smiles, but it twists a little anyway. He wants Stiles more than he should, more than their unspoken agreement allows. 

The hotel room doesn’t mean anything more than Stiles has a sense of humor. That, and maybe he wanted to be comfortable while they fucked. 

Stiles tips his head to the side, eyeing him. “Not an  _ obligation,  _ but it would be very much appreciated.” The elevator doors open back up. “I’m kind of dying to see what’s under the suit.”

Jackson doesn’t  _ blush _ because he’s not affected by such a crass admission. But he’s still hot from the alcohol and dancing and the way Stiles is looking at him with such open want. 

When they step out of the elevator, Jackson finds himself pulling at his dress shirt and vest until the fabric loosens and reveals a glance of skin along his abdomen. They’re standing where anyone could see, but they’re alone right now and Jackson feels reckless. He holds his shirt up and wiggles the fingers of his other hand down the front of his pants. 

He can see Stiles out of the corner of his eye. Stiles drifts closer after having taken several steps down the hall, expecting Jackson to follow him. “Hey, what—“ his word cuts off suddenly, and he swallows like maybe his mouth went dry. 

Jackson has a finger hooked around the elastic of the underwear he’s got on, pulling it up enough to show Stiles the color and material. 

They’re dark purple lace. 

“You like?” He asks with as much disinterest as he can muster considering he’s half hard. “I bought them for prom. They match.” 

Stiles swallows again and opens his mouth. It takes him a half beat to speak. “Y-yeah,” he says openly, “I’m definitely a fan.” 

Jackson smirks, feeling high on the desire wafting off Stiles. He feels powerful again,  _ in charge _ . When he releases the fabric, it snaps back beneath the waist of his pants, and the front of the panties provides enough friction from the movement to make him shiver. “Are we going to stand here all night, or did you actually get a room?”

“No, there’s a room. I got a room.” The awkward, over-excited side of Stiles shows for the first time all night. With it, Jackson smiles and feels warmth growing in his chest that has nothing to do with controlled substances. He watches Stiles fish for the keycard out of his hideous velcro wallet and hold it up triumphantly. “See? Follow me.”

Jackson rolls his eyes, fighting back the smile that wants to spread over his lips. He takes the card from Stiles’s hand and looks at the number on the sleeve before heading towards their room. Stiles stays close on his heels, hands drifting along Jackson’s sides and back. 

The lock makes him pause to slide the card into it. He moans quietly when Stiles uses his slight height advantage to press him against the door and mouth at the back of his neck. Jackson gets the door open and the two of them stumble inside. 

“Fuck,” Stiles exhales, clutching at Jackson’s hips and backing him farther into the room after kicking the door closed. “Been thinking about this all fucking day.” 

“How much?” Jackson asks, a little breathless as he grabs Stiles by the front of his jacket. “What were you thinking about?” His second question is asked against Stiles’s mouth. 

He doesn’t get an answer at first, because Stiles is too busy kissing him, not that Jackson is complaining about that. He licks into Stiles’s mouth, warm and wet and so addictive. Stiles makes an encouraging noise as he gives as good as he gets. He runs his tongue along the sensitive inside of Jackson’s bottom lip before nipping at the flesh. 

Stiles starts talking. He  _ always _ talks, and it drives Jackson crazy every time. 

“I wanted to know if you were serious when you said you’d wear them,” Stiles confesses; his hands work Jackson’s suit jacket over his shoulders and down his arms. The material will no doubt be hopelessly wrinkled, but Jackson knows it won’t be too noticeable to the average eye by the time they leave the room—if there’s anyone to witness them anyway. “Can’t believe you really did.” 

Stiles sounds wrecked, and it makes Jackson grin sharply. “I keep my promises. Even if you don’t deserve it.” He tacks on the insult to see the fire light in Stiles’s eyes. 

When a hand grips him by the neck and tips his head back, Jackson chuffs a strangled laugh. Stiles uses his hold on Jackson to shove him against the dresser in front of the bed. The edge of the wood digs into the back of his legs sharply as Stiles leans into him. 

“I think you would have worn them no matter what, wouldn’t you?” Stiles asks quietly, “But especially because you had an audience waiting. You just have to have everyone’s attention, don’t you?” His words come out just this side of mean—the right amount to make annoyance and embarrassment course through him. It does nothing to stem the arousal that’s consumed him, however.

If anything, it makes the need that much sweeter. 

Stiles is the only one who had any reason to know about the panties, so they both know it’s not  _ everyone’s  _ attention Jackson wants. Not this time. 

Jackson pants, pushing into the hold and silently daring Stiles to squeeze a little tighter. He tugs at Stiles’s shirt, almost ripping it in the process of freeing the end from where it is tucked into his pants. “I wish I hadn’t told you,” he grits the words out even as he deftly unfastened the buttons of Stiles’s shirt. 

Stiles’s grip on his neck tightens slightly before it’s gone completely and he’s hauling Jackson around like he isn’t a good ten pounds lighter in muscle. He untangles Jackson’s hands from his shirt before pushing him backwards onto the bed. 

“Liar,” Stiles states as he yanks Jackson’s shoes off before moving to get the front of his pants open. “You wore them  _ for _ me.” That self assured tone of Stiles cuts hotly through Jackson. He kneels between Jackson’s knees to finish working the pants down and off his legs. 

“Fuck you,” Jackson says, voice shaky. He’s propped up on his elbows and looking down at where Stiles has made himself at home. The touch of his hands sliding up Jackson’s bare thighs makes Jackson bite back a moan. 

He’s hard, cock trapped by the delicate purple lace of the panties. Hunched over the way he is, Stiles’s breath ghosts across the sensitive skin, warm and tantalizing. Jackson’s stomach flexes with the desire to roll his hips up so he can shove his cock in Stiles’s mouth. 

“Such a bitch,” Stiles says as almost a thought to himself, mouth curving into an amused smile. He firmly pushes Jackson’s thighs farther apart, and Jackson gets the impression that he does it just because he  _ can _ . “Maybe I should just leave you like this, alone on prom night with nothing but your half ruined panties to keep you company.” 

Jackson almost snaps out a desperate plea of  _ “No,” _ but manages to bite it back. Stiles is fucking with him, winding him up for the fun of it. And Jackson can’t honestly say he hates any of it. It makes him feel twisted up inside, sure, but in the best ways—ways he doesn’t even know how to explain and doesn’t even want to try. 

“I wouldn’t be the only one left with blue balls,” he counters, teeth tight as he reaches down to thread his fingers in the grown out length of Stiles’s hair. “Drop the act, Stilinski, and suck my dick.” 

The want in Stiles’s eyes hardens into something colder at Jackson’s words. Wrong thing to say. Stiles twists his head away so Jackson would have to pull out hair if he really wanted to keep his hold. Jackson lets go and sucks in a sharp breath. 

Stiles scoffs, entirely unamused. “I thought we were past the last names,  _ Whittemore _ .” It looks like he’s two seconds from standing up and actually leaving Jackson to his own devices. 

Jackson sits up and boxes Stiles in with his knees pressing into Stiles’s sides. “Stiles—“ He cuts off, throat working around the words that are all tangled up in his throat. 

There’s a long moment between them. The scratch of the sheets against Jackson’s skin is distracting suddenly, and he feels cold everywhere but the places he and Stiles touch. He squeezes his knees around Stiles and keeps his mouth shut while his heart pounds in his chest. 

Stiles looks at him with an indecipherable expression before he kneels up and kisses Jackson hard enough that their teeth clack. His hands come back to his legs, fingers digging in hard enough to make Jackson hiss. 

“Don’t,” Stiles says in a hushed voice between them, breath shaking. He doesn’t clarify what the  _ don’t  _ specifically means, but Jackson nods his head anyway, repentant for everything that would stop this. 

“M’sorry.” Jackson holds Stiles’s cheek and presses gentle kiss after gentle kiss to his lips. “Stiles.”

The fingers on his thighs loosen, and Stiles’s hands slide up and up until his thumbs frame Jackson’s pelvis and his fingers wrap around Jackson’s hips. “Tell me you want this,” he asks. His voice wavers. 

Stiles is suddenly stripped back down to the insecure, hopeful kid Jackson grew up with. Maybe it was supposed to come out as a command, harsh and dark, but Jackson can only see Stiles’s uncertainty. 

He slumps backwards and goes lax. The thought of being as honest as Stiles makes Jackson quake. Covering his face with his hands, he sucks in a deep breath. Each second that passes is one where he can feel Stiles building back that wall between them that every cruel word and gesture had erected over the years—replacing each brick that had slowly been removed with every touch and soft moan in the dark. 

Jackson feels like his chest is being squeezed. The expense of the room around them feels like he’s untethered, falling. All he has to do is  _ say it _ . Say the words that he’s been holding behind his teeth for months. He could say it any way he wanted—say it with the carnal intent that only means  _ I want you to fuck me.  _ Stiles might even accept that, maybe he’ll accept half of what he wants. Stiles deserves more than just  _ half _ though. 

Jackson can hear Danny in his head, telling him he deserves more than half too, but he shies away from the words. He just wants Stiles to stay with him. 

Jackson sits back up, arms spread out. “Yes.” He clicks his jaw shut and hopes it’s enough. He doesn’t know if he can breathe, let alone elaborate. 

Stiles clicks his tongue and sits back on his heels, pulling away from Jackson. Not completely though. His hands are still just barely there on his legs. “Use your words, please.” His eyes flick to Jackson, wetting his bottom lip. 

Jackson groans, practically growls, in frustration. “You, Stiles. I want  _ you _ , this,  _ us _ .” He twists the sheets in his hands at his sides.  

Stiles stares at him, face slack with what looks like disbelief. “Yeah?” His tongue slides against his bottom lip again, an unconscious habit that Jackson can’t help but follow. 

“Yes.” It comes out as a strangled whisper. His body tenses for rejection even though he thinks maybe there’s no reason to expect Stiles to laugh in his face and call him a bitch. 

Stiles chokes a little bit and his hands spasm against Jackson’s legs. “I...did not expect you to—I mean, I thought,  _ maybe _ , but...” He shakes his head and cuts himself off. Stiles smiles shyly.

Then he’s grinning almost manically and standing up to climb onto the bed and into Jackson’s lap. He cups Jackson’s face. It’s laughter, but it isn’t cruel. The sound bounces around the room and into Jackson’s head, pushing past the defense he already has half constructed. 

He raises his hands hands and pulls that stupid, cheap mask off Stiles’s face. He’s beautiful and with Jackson—seems to actually want to  _ be with _ Jackson and not just fuck (like Jackson’s been trying to convince himself since the beginning). The thought makes Jackson shiver and feel overwhelmed. He slides his hands beneath Stiles’s shirt to smooth along the soft, warm skin of his back. “I said it.” He hides his face in Stiles’s neck. “Can we do this now?” 

Jackson isn’t even hard anymore, not that it won’t take much longer with Stiles on his lap for him to rise to the occasion again. He wants that—wants to be with Stiles like he’s low-key been planning for all day. But, more importantly, he’s got Stiles here, now, and maybe for longer even once they leave this room, if he can stay out of his own way. 

Stiles’s laughter softens into a chuckle. He pulls back so Jackson has to look at him. “All you had to do was ask, Jacks.” The nickname is so  _ fond _ . Not something Stiles uses often, and hearing it now causes Jackson to blush. 

His chest feels full, but it isn’t tight anymore. 

Jackson deflects even though he knows he’s smiling. “Whatever. I’m asking.” 

Saying that much has taken everything out of him, but it’s enough. The spread of Stiles’s fingers against his ribs, and the quiet breath ghosting over his cheek as Stiles leans in to kiss him is all the evidence he needs. Stiles’s movements have lost the hard edge and coaxed out a rare moment of ease in Jackson. 

The kiss lingers, turns into more and more until it’s almost as if there is no beginning and end of each one, of each other. Stiles stretches over Jackson and presses him into the bed beneath him. Their bodies rolls together. 

“So pretty,” Stiles murmurs against Jackson’s chest after he gets the shirt all his shirt all the way unbuttoned and pushed out of the way. 

The sensation of Stiles’s slick, hot tongue trailing across his skin has him shivering, bringing a hand to grasp at the hair on the back of Stiles’s head. He arches up, hissing at the feeling when Stiles’s teeth drag across a nipple. He might have gone soft during their little confession session, but he’s fully into it now. 

“Please,” he begs, rocking against the scant pressure Stiles is giving him. 

The other boy is still on top of him, but Stiles has his knees under him so their lower halves only touch in the most fleeting way when Jackson arches up. Stiles sucks on the abused skin between his teeth. He pulls a curse from Jackson as his cock throbs where it is still trapped in his panties. Jackson can feel where the lace is wet and smeared with precome. 

Stiles makes this deep, promising noise then he’s sliding down Jackson’s torso. Open mouthed kisses trail, marking Stiles’s journey. When he bites lightly at the thin skin above Jackson’s pelvis, Stiles brings his fingers up to tuck beneath the panties’s elastic. He tugs them down an inch. 

“You always get so wet,” Stiles says in that hushed way that leaves Jackson wondering if he’s even supposed to hear him. So different from the loud, obnoxious tangents Stiles loses himself to during any other time. Stiles says, “Never get enough of it.”

Jackson’s heart is kicking in his chest. He nods his head, “Yeah, yeah.” He’s chanting the word over and over because Stiles is slowly,  _ finally _ , peeling down his underwear. The scratch of the lace against his most sensitive area is obscenely  _ good _ . He groans when Stiles gets the panties down his legs. “God, yes.”

Stiles doesn’t speak this time. Instead, he licks a hot stripe up Jackson’s cock with the flat of his tongue. When he reaches the head, Stiles swirls his tongue there wickedly. Jackson’s fingers unclench then twist in Stiles’s hair, forcing himself not to buck up into the feeling when Stiles’s mouth closes around him in glorious wet suction. 

He moans hotly as his feet come up to brace against the bed. Jackson has a hard time exercising patience in daily life, and right now he wants this—Stiles lavishing all his attention and skill on him—so badly it almost  _ hurts _ . Jackson doesn’t shove his hips forward though. He grudgingly slides his legs back down and relaxes his grip on Stiles’s hair as he is slowly and methodically taken apart bit by bit by Stiles’s too talented mouth. 

Jackson can feel himself hurtling towards orgasm as Stiles’s throat works around his cock. “St-Stiles, stop.” Jackson reaches down with his other hand and grabs at Stiles’s shoulder. He whimpers when Stiles swallows one more time before pulling back. “If you don’t, I’m gonna come.”

Stiles’s mouth is red and plush. The light catches on the shine, and Jackson watches helplessly as Stiles licks away the bit of precome stuck to his bottom lip. “Kind of the point of a blow job, right?”  He palms Jackson’s cock and gives it a few slow strokes. 

Jackson pushes up on his elbows after releasing Stiles. “I thought,” he says breathlessly as he reaches forward again. He tucks his hand into the open front of Stiles’s pants to wrap his fingers around the bulge there. Jackson continues, “The point was to have  _ sex _ .” 

He looks down at his hand as he presses his thumb over the damp cotton stretched over Stiles’s fat cock head. The sight makes him squirm a little, thinking about how good it will feel inside him. Better now that he doesn’t have to pretend this time (each time) will be the last. Jackson tugs Stiles’s boxers down to get skin to skin. 

“Blow jobs are a type of sex,” Stiles says, but he’s noticeably distracted. He closes his eyes. Jackson can see the way his jaw flexes like he’s concentrating on not coming with the hand stroking along that sensitive spot just below the head. 

Moving so he can sit up on his knees, Jackson grabs the slack hand Stiles still has cupping his cock. He shuffles until the two of them are almost chest to chest. Stiles’s mouth tastes like  _ Jackson _ when Jackson licks into it openly, dirty. 

“But I want more,” he doesn’t demand it, or get snotty like he normally does. This time he’s honest and earnest as he pulls Stiles’s hand to his side and farther back until Stiles takes over, understanding. 

“You’re gonna fucking kill me,” Stiles groans, dropping his head to Jackson’s shoulder as his fingers explore just how thoroughly Jackson had been preparing for tonight. “I can’t believe you!”

When Stiles gently pushes a finger into him, he sucks in a breath. “I wasn’t expecting you to go all out with the hotel room,” he says truthfully. His eyes are closed, head tilted back as he enjoys the stretch when Stiles plays with his rim. The second finger goes in easily despite the fact that some of the lube he’d used earlier dried already. 

Stiles mouths along Jackson’s exposed neck. “I feel like I should be offended by the insinuation that I’d just bend you over and fuck you without prep, but I’m honestly too fucking turned on to care.” He spreads his fingers and teases a third finger tip along Jackson’s hole. The angle doesn’t allow for the best stimulation, though that doesn’t keep either of them from enjoying the moment. 

They’ve never done it without  _ any _ prep, but it’s not like they typically choose to hook up in the nicest, most private of areas. Time isn’t usually on their side in any context. 

It’s different tonight. 

Jackson twists his wrist, stroking Stiles’s dick, and asks, “Gonna do something about it? You bought the room, after all.” 

Stiles scoffs. “You’re, like, way too fixated on that. It’s our  _ prom night _ .” His cheeks look a little redder than just from arousal. His fingers push in harder, and he drops a kiss to the ball of Jackson’s shoulder before biting at it. 

With a groan, Jackson rocks his hips back to chase the stretch. He still finds the brain cells to taunt lightly, “Because you  _ like me _ .” The words make the breath rush out of him, shaky, but he’s so fucking happy. “Did you bring stuff?”

Stiles leans forward, forcing Jackson backwards awkwardly. He thrusts into Jackson’s grip, thick and so hot in Jackson’s hand, and says, “No, I rented the room but left my supplies at home.”

On his back again, Jackson grimaces when Stiles pulls his fingers free so he can reach towards the table next to the bed. “Shut up.” 

Stiles drops the little bottle and a packet onto the mattress next to Jackson. Then he strips his shirt off the rest of the way, shimmying when he catches Jackson watching. “Like something you see?” He gives Jackson the cheesiest eyebrow waggle, and Jackson almost wishes he regretted this. 

He huffs. “God, you’re a dork.” 

“Still got your hand on my dick though,” Stiles picks up the condom and taps the packet against Jackson’s knuckles. 

Scoffing, Jackson leans up and kisses Stiles to shut him up as he takes the packet from him to tear it open and roll it down. He sucks on Stiles’s tongue and grabs  for the bottle of lube next to them. Their fingers bump when Stiles helps. He gets the lid popped and too much lube goes everywhere, spilling over their hands and into the sheets. Someone starts laughing, then both of them are chuckling until Stiles groans deep when Jackson guides him down by the cock. 

“Yeah,” Jackson moans. He arches up when Stiles takes over with one hand pushing Jackson’s leg up as he uses the other to position himself. 

The blunt head of Stiles’s cock bumps up against Jackson’s hole, teasing him with pressure but not  _ enough _ . In a rush, he grabs onto Stiles and tugs him closer. “ _ Now _ ,” he demands. 

Stiles lets out a disbelieving laugh, “Wow.” He leans down, elbows either side of Jackson. “You have  _ no _ idea how much I like it when you get pushy.” He’s smiling, kissing along Jackson’s jaw and up to his ear. “Don’t tell anyone that though. It’ll totally ruin my rep.”

Jackson would ask,  _ “What rep?” _ But he’s too busy feeling hot all over, amused and turned on and  _ frustrated _ because Stiles should already be  _ in him _ . He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, Stiles is pushing in him with one long stroke. 

Jackson makes a breathy sound that he would rather die than own up to, fingers clenching around Stiles’s biceps as he adjusts to the delicious stretch. He closes his mouth and presses his lips together to keep quiet.

“C’mon, Jacks,” Stiles pants, brow furrowed as his hips meet Jackson’s once he’s all the way inside. “I wanna hear you. I know you can’t be quiet.” His words are punched out when Jackson shifts and tightens around him. 

A groan slips past his lips, because Stiles doesn’t pause more than the seconds it takes him to taunt Jackson. Stiles’s hips pull back and push forward again. The urge to keep quiet is beneath the surface, but they’re alone and safe here, together. He doesn’t have to worry about being found out by their friends or anyone who wouldn’t get it. 

It’s like they’re the only two people in the world, like this bed is the only important point in the universe now. 

Stiles keeps talking quietly, words broken up with harsh breaths as he pushes their bodies together. “You’re so fucking gorgeous. I love the way you feel around me.” 

Jackson can’t help whining. Each thrust is perfection. He’s stretched wide, split open on Stiles’s cock. Listening to Stiles praise him is everything, notches the pleasure up inexplicably. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” he pants, swallowing with a dry mouth because he hasn’t been able to catch his breath since they started. Jackson arches up and pulls his legs closer to his chest. He’s practically folded in half and braced with Stiles’s arms hooked beneath his knees for support. “Don’t stop! Don’t stop!”

Stiles shakes his head. Sweat drips down the side of his face, and the violent rhythm of their bodies causes it to hit Jackson on the cheek. A barely registered thing, because they’re both sweating and slick where so much skin slips and presses together. 

The angle shifts when Stiles hauls Jackson up a little, gets his knees closer to Jackson’s ass. Then his cock is nailing Jackson’s prostate every fucking thrust, lighting him up from the inside and forcing Jackson to moan without restraint now. Jackson is helpless to do anything but let it happen. 

His hands scramble from Stiles’s arms to his neck. He lets go entirely to press his hands up against the headboard for stabilization. Jackson’s stomach is tense and he’s right there, right in the edge as he bites at his bottom lip and stares at the heated expression on Stiles’s face above him. The sight alone could bring him off to completion, but Stiles is fucking into him so good that he can’t even focus on any or thing. 

“Fuck baby, are you close?” Stiles says in a rush, ducking down to lick into his mouth because neither of them are stopping for a proper kiss. “I am. I’m gonna come.” He grits his teeth and forces himself to slow down just a little. 

“No! Keep going!” Jackson out right begs, shoving his hips up and wishing he had more leverage than his hands on the headboard. He lets go anyway, so he can get both hands on his own cock and stroke. “I’m there, I’m there,” he practically sobs, suddenly desperate to come. 

“Wanna feel it. Do it,” Stiles’s voice is deeper, pulling at Jackson and finally tipping the scales that last, tiny little bit. 

Jackson lets out a shout, clenches his teeth because he doesn’t want to be  _ that loud _ . Come shoots up his chest and belly when his orgasm rips through him, this hot, mind numbing experience that leaves Jackson whimpering and shivering in bliss. 

“Stiles,” he moans. He rubs his head back and forth on the pillow, overwhelmed and still so fucking turned on. “Stiles, please.” 

Jackson’s body is one huge satisfied mass, luxuriating in the post orgasmic bliss Stiles drove him too. Each stroke from Stiles undercuts that bliss with this electric kind of sting. It makes Jackson want more, even though he knows soon it could easily tip into  _ too much _ . But he wants it, whatever Stiles needs. Jackson  _ needs _ Stiles to fuck him to completion, come while he’s still inside so he can feel everything. 

Stiles curses quietly. He lets go of one of Jackson’s legs so he can grip him around the back of the neck and kiss him. The angle is a relief on Jackson’s hips, makes each thrust tighter even as it protects Jackson from the sensation overload of that sweet spot inside being stroked over and over. 

Wrapping his arms around Stiles’s shoulders, he kisses back with the last bit of energy he has—like it’s life or death or something. Like it’s a promise. 

Stiles comes like that, kissing Jackson and meeting him in the middle. He sobs Jackson’s name into his mouth. Jackson gasps, feeling how Stiles seems to grow, get just a little harder before he’s coming inside him. 

“So good,” Jackson tugs on the hair at the back of Stiles’s head, pets the sweaty, messy strands there. “Fuck.” 

Stiles presses the side of his face against Jackson’s, grinding into him as the last of his orgasm shudders through. “Jacks,” he says again, almost wondrous. 

Jackson stretches his legs out when Stiles sort of collapses on top of him. It’s gross and sticky where his come smears between their bodies, but Jackson doesn’t want to move yet. He closes his eyes and luxuriates in satisfaction, no worries, no stress or anxiety crowding his thoughts. 

After he catches his breath, Stiles shifts and gently pulls out. “Sorry,” he apologizes quietly when Jackson winces at the weird feeling. He grabs a tissue from the box next to the bed and does a quick disposal of the condom before dropping back down to lie with his head on Jackson’s shoulder. 

“Okay,” he says, sounding more like his usual self. Jackson tips his face so he can see Stiles clearly. “Prom is definitely magical. I was skeptical at first, especially because it kind of sucked last year. But this? Senior prom?  _ Prom night _ with you?” Stiles chuckles, winking up at Jackson. “Definitely magical.” 

Stiles says, “You expressed real feelings, Jackson.” His eyes are all wide, teasing, but Jackson can see the relief in his eyes, see the genuine happiness radiating from him that can’t all be attributed to sex. 

Jackson rolls his eyes and groans. “Oh my God, shut up. There’s nothing ‘magical’ about prom night. We just did what everyone with a boyfriend or girlfriend does.” 

He realizes what he says the exactly moment Stiles does. Jackson watches as Stiles sits up to lean down over Jackson with the goofiest smile on his face as he asks, “Does that mean we’re boyfriends now?”

“Ugh,  _ yes _ ,” Jackson pushes Stiles’s stupid face away, laughing because he’s so fucking  _ happy _ . 

The night had started off with him thinking  _ this is the last time—has to be the last time _ because he didn’t think he could keep doing this to himself. But now...now he knows Stiles really wants him as much as Jackson had been pretending he didn’t want Stiles. 

No one’s going to care if they date—there’s no  _ reason _ for Jackson to let his head get in the way of his heart. 

Stiles bounces on the bed next to Jackson. “I don’t care what you say, no I have proof there really is something magic about prom night.” He leans down and plants a big kiss on Jackson’s lips before saying, “Don’t deny it, boyfriend.”

And that sounds pretty damn good to Jackson. 

He pulls Stiles back down, grinning against his mouth as he says, “If you say so,  _ boyfriend _ .”

 


End file.
